‘I fear I will disappoint the Fuehrer …’

‘Hencke, you are Odysseus escaped from the clutches of the Cyclops and returned to Ithaca. This is no time for modesty. You have achieved more than any other captured German since this war began … But tell me, we know so little of you – no more than your name.’ He was on the edge of his chair – like a cat waiting to pounce, thought Hencke. ‘Tell me more about yourself.’

So they sat while Hencke talked, of his childhood in the Sudetenland, the German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia which had been almost the first of the Third Reich’s territorial claims in Europe, stripped from the Czechs in 1938. Of his modest life as a schoolteacher, of his even more modest entry into the Wehrmacht as an ordinary infantryman, of his capture outside Bastogne on Christmas Day last as the Ardennes offensive turned to ignominious rout, of his incarceration and of his run for freedom. And as he spoke his mind was in turmoil. He’d only just arrived and already he was taking coffee with Goebbels – they were going to push him at Hitler! – could it all be so easy? Of course not. He needed time to think and his confusion and obvious exhaustion were causing his words to stumble. He took refuge in a yawn, mumbling an apology before Goebbels interrupted him.

‘I have tired you enough. There is much for us to discuss still, but you must get some rest before our celebration this afternoon – it would not do for you to fall asleep on the Fuehrer! And we must do something about your gift-wrapping … Hencke, I am appointing you to the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, the most elite division in the Waffen SS. Its name is synonymous, as now is yours, with valour and dedication to the Fuehrer. I congratulate you! So, rest. There are a few hours before the Americans return to snatch our sleep from us and wake the dead. We can continue this later …’

Hencke’s head swam from fatigue and the overwhelming atmosphere. He hadn’t seen Goebbels give any signal, but when he looked up the orderly was waiting to escort him away. He rose stiffly with Goebbels’ hand on his elbow for support. ‘Sleep well, brave Hencke,’ the Reichsminister said, assisting him towards the door. At the threshold he paused, taking Hencke’s hand.

‘I have never been able to fight in the front line, but you seem to have shown enough heroism for both of us. You’re a very brave man, Hencke. Indeed, coming from the Sudetenland it could be said that you were part of this war even before it began.’

Hencke nodded. Goebbels didn’t know how right he was.

‘Tell me, where in the Sudetenland were you born?’

Hencke froze. The hand which held his, which had supported him across the room, had now become a restraint, a manacle holding him back. He knew their conversation had become interrogation and he would need all his wits about him. But his tired body no longer wanted to fight the fatigue and he felt paralysed by the touch of the hand and the brush of the seemingly innocent words. Goebbels’ dark eyes and lean, saturnine face had the hypnotic power of a swaying cobra, and for a moment it appeared as if Hencke could say nothing. He knew why Goebbels had asked.

‘Eger,’ he said softly. ‘February the second, 1910. I was born just outside Eger.’

Goebbels nodded. ‘They will be very proud of you. Well, goodnight, Hencke. And don’t worry about a thing. We’ll take care of you.’

And Hencke was gone. With a thoughtful look Goebbels walked back to his desk. He spent some time pondering over a slow burning cigarette before he lifted the phone.

‘Bormann? Hencke’s arrived. In Berlin. In the Reich Chancellery. Look, you’re the man with the records. I want you to find out a little more about him. Schoolteacher. Born second February 1910 outside Eger in the Sudetenland … No, seems fine, but he’s too valuable for us to take chances. I’ve arranged for someone to keep an eye on him, just in case. At times like these you can never be too sure …’

Replacing the receiver he checked his watch. He opened a large drawer in his desk and switched on the small radio which was inside, fiddling with the tuning dial before settling back to listen to the news service of the BBC. Nowadays it was the only way he could find out precisely what was going on. And Goebbels always insisted on knowing what was going on.

The orderly, who had not spoken a word on the journey through the Reich Chancellery to Goebbels’ study, seemed to have relaxed. Once the Reichsminister appeared satisfied with his guest the tension had seeped out of the lieutenant, to be replaced by a stubbornness and even pugnacity. Hencke thought he could smell alcohol on his breath.

‘How well do you know Berlin?’ he enquired of Hencke.

‘Not at all. I’m from the Sudetenland.’

‘Rumour says you’ve come to save the city. That’s nice of you, very generous,’ the lieutenant continued, oozing sarcasm. He clearly had little time for heroes, particularly new ones. ‘So let me show you a little of what you’ve come to save.’ Without waiting for any sort of response he led the way along a back corridor and down a staircase. They were headed once more for the cellar. Soon they had left behind the lofty ceilings and soiled splendour of the upper floors and were down once more in the low, bare, monochrome world of hollow expressions and deep-sunk eyes rimmed red with fatigue. They proceeded along the corridor that ran through the cellar complex to a point where it became cluttered with bundles of blankets and rags. Inside the rags were soldiers, all badly wounded, some of whom already appeared to have given up the struggle and to be dead. There was a sweet, disgusting smell in the air and flies buzzed freely around. Up ahead Hencke could see doors and the lieutenant was headed for them, but barring his way was a broken, toppled figure, once a full man, now unable even to continue sitting propped against the wall. The body was hunched, the eyes bruised and tightly closed, the only sign of life being a low moan of despair coming from between swollen lips. Judging by the gaudy brass buttons that still clung to what was left of his uniform, the body appeared once to have been a young recruit from a naval training college. It was clear he would never return there. The lieutenant picked him up and gently leaned him back against the wall.

‘Come on, old chap. Can’t hold up progress,’ he whispered in the lad’s ear. He lit a cigarette to place between the puffy lips but the lad seemed to have neither the strength nor spirit to respond and the cigarette fell to the floor. The lieutenant crushed it angrily with his boot before looking back at Hencke. ‘Looks as if you’re too late to save that one. Never mind, plenty more inside.’

They went through the door, and the scene in front of them banished any last vestige of tiredness from Hencke’s mind. Beneath a solitary lamp stood an officer and two women. The officer wore a barely recognizable uniform which was covered in blood, some old and caked, much of it fresh. The two women, scarcely less bloodied, were obviously nurses. On a high table between them lay a body with its stomach open and entrails pouring out on either side of the incision. The doctor was having trouble since the body was twitching and he was uttering curses about the lack of morphine. His eyes were as red and smeared as his uniform and his face grey from lack of sleep. One of the nurses was crying silently, not tears of weakness or fear but tears of compassion; the body before them seemed to belong to a youth no older than sixteen. Set back from the table, on a hard bench where he lay supported by a large stuffed cushion, was an old man. Even at a glance he was clearly not long for this world yet between racking bouts of coughing he was giving instruction and advice to the surgeon, who sought counsel frequently. Perhaps the man wielding the scalpel was not a qualified doctor at all. In one corner of the improvised surgery lay four other forms on stretchers, waiting their turn.